Phœbe saw the little smile upon Simon’s face, and taking his coat lappets in both hands, she bent her pretty little head in front of his, and said:
“Tell us, master.”
“You think,” he answered, “that I must know all the old wives’ stories? Well, I will tell you this one. Joseph of Arimathea, you know, gave his sepulchre to receive the body of the Lord. Into it the blessed angels went, and out from it, upon the third day, came the Risen Saviour. From that hour, until the one in which he saw the Lord return unto the skies, Joseph followed Him, and then all Palestine became to him empty and weary. There were people who doubted the resurrection; people who said that Joseph himself was one who aided in a deception; and so, tired of it all, he took his staff in hand and wandered until he came to England, and to Glastonbury. On Christmas-day he climbed the hill where the old, old church now stands, and here, in sign that his wanderings were over, he planted his staff. At once it rooted, it shot forth leaves, it blossomed, and the scent of the milk-white flowers filled the air. From that time to the days when Charles and Cromwell fought, it has blossomed on Christmas Eve; but then it was cut down by some impious hand, yet still all the slips, the twigs, which had been cut off by pilgrims, have kept the sacred birthday; and as your mother says, the one in Quainton can as well as the other decide between the Old calendar and the New.”
“I am glad to hear thee say so,” exclaimed Mistress Margery, with brightening eyes, “and if you choose to journey with us when next we go to Quainton, you are heartily welcome to our company, and I’ll bespeak thee a honest welcome from my sister who, like my Phœbe here, has a strong leaning toward learning.”
“Nay,” said the school-master, looking a little ashamed of himself; “I but told the story to amuse the child. The plant is merely a sort of hawthorn from Aleppo, and regularly blooms twice in the year, if the weather be but mild.”
But although Mistress Margery was much disappointed that he had no desire to go to Quainton, she found both Roger and Phœbe bent upon witnessing the Christmas blooming.
“I don’t know,” said she, lightly, “but that between the Old Way, and the New, the Thorn will be confused, and not know when it should bloom.”
“It will not bloom on your new Christmas, take my word for that,” said Forbes; “and if the children will wait until the true day comes, I myself will take them along, for I have a mind to see it myself.”
“But, cousin Forbes,” said Phœbe, “it may bloom on the new day.”
The little people had their way. On the morning of the twenty-fourth of December, by the New Style, but the thirteenth by Caleb’s count, Roger and Phœbe started off, mounted on their mother’s own steady white horse, Phœbe behind her brother, with the bag containing their holiday clothes, while to Roger was given their lunch, and a bottle of blackberry wine for their aunt, with whom they were to lodge in Quainton.